Amelia Diane Coombs - Between You, Me, and the Honeybees

Between You, Me, and the Honeybees

Amelia Diane Coombs

An absolute charmer of a book. Delightful!

JENN BENNETT,

author of Alex, Approximately and Starry Eyes

This rich and delightful debut kept our hearts from page one.

EMILY WIBBERLEY AND AUSTIN SIEGEMUND-BROKA,

authors of Always Never Yours

Intriguing and charming.

KIRKUS REVIEWS

Sweet and charming. Those who enjoy Jenn Bennetts works or Rachel Lynn Solomons Today Tonight Tomorrow will find much to love.

SLJ

Keep My Heart in San Francisco

An imprint of Simon & Schuster Childrens Publishing Division

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the authors imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Text 2021 by Amelia Diane Coombs

Jacket illustration 2021 by Kat Goodloe

Jacket design by Tiara Iandiorio 2021 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

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Interior design by Tiara Iandiorio

CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

ISBN 9781534453005

ISBN 9781534453029 (eBook)

To Steve, I couldnt write love stories until I met you

No need to hurry. No need to sparkle.

No need to be anybody but oneself.

Virginia Woolf

LITTLE-KNOWN FACT: HONEYBEES are natures first feminists.

I hold the hive frame up to my face, and scan the layer of fuzzy bees that cover the wax comb. After I track down the laying queenthe key indicator of a healthy colonyI set the frames back into the hive body. I give them a puff from the smoker to clear any bees off the tops of the frames, then lower the copper lid into place. A few girls fly onto the landing strip, their back legs swollen with pollen. They look like colorful balloon pantswhite, red, yellow, purple, and gray blues.

Over the years Ive learned everything about the ecosystem of the beehive. For instance, any honeybee out in the wild, climbing over flower petals collecting pollen or nectar, is female. I could go on about them for hours, but if you have to know one thing about honeybees (other than wed die without them), know this: Male bees are drones, and drones either (a) die while mating with another hives queen or (b) get kicked out of the hive when winter comes. Sometimes the females chew off their wings so they cant fly or return to the hive.

Theyre an advanced society.

I step beneath the vine-covered archway and dump the smoker onto the bench, popping off the lid with my thumb. Dark tendrils curl into the air, the charred remains of twigs and fire-starter fibers turning to ash in the wind. My phone buzzes, but since its tucked into the back pocket of my shorts, I dont bother to check it. My nitrile gloves dont work on touch screens. Not like I need to look at the text to know its Nan prodding me with reminders.

Like Id forget my own high school graduation.

Bail on it, play hooky? Sure. But my heads not too far into the clouds to forget the actual ceremony. I snap off the gloves, sticky with strings of honey, and toss them in a sealed garbage bin beneath the table. Exhaling, I drag my fingers through my damp hair. Even without a protective bee suit, sweat rolls down my back, collecting in the waistband of my shorts. I lean against the workbench and take a moment.

Breathe. Listen to the slow, steady pound of my heart.

Out in the apiary, the worries of daily life fall away. Im able to forget everything and focus on being present. Since my anxiety disorder isnt going away anytime soon, I spend most of my free time out with the bees. More so when Im stressing out about life, my future.

My phone buzzes again.

I push away from the workbench and force myself back toward our two-story renovated farmhouse. I slide my phone from my pocket and unlock the screen, scanning the text message.

NAN: Be there in fifteen!

ME: Okay, okay! Meet you out front

I tuck my phone back into my pocket and try to shake off the creeping unease clinging to my shoulders. My beekeeping- induced calm is slipping away, lessening with each step I take closer to the house.

Josie! Mom leans out the back patio door, waving me inside. Isnt Nan picking you up any minute?

Sorry, lost track of time, I lie as I hop up the patio stairs. Before entering the house, I pat down my body, making sure a bee isnt hitching a ride with me inside. All clear. I scoot past Mom and step over Ford, our ancient French bulldog whos curled up at the base of the stairs, and run up to my bathroom.

No time to shower, so I roll on deodorantreal deodorant, not the hippie crystal stuff Mom stocks in my bathroomswap my damp tank top for my Destroy the Patriarchy, Not the Planet tee, and attack my curls with a brush. Then frown and twist them back into a bun, securing the whole mess with an alligator clip. My graduation gown hangs from the second- story banister outside my bedroom, and I grab it on my way down.

Text me if you forget anything. Mom pulls me in for a hug, and I inhale her natural scent. We rarely wear perfume, since it attracts bees, so she smells like I do. Of clean smoke, of honey, of nature. And Ill see you there! Exciting!

I force a smile and hoist my bag over one shoulder, the graduation gown dangling from my other hand. Super exciting, I say, infusing some enthusiasm into my words.

Mom smushes my face between her cheeks and rests her forehead on mine. Proud of you, Bug.

For a moment I squeeze my eyes shut and savor this. Pretend like Im someone Mom would actually be proud of. Then a car horn blares outside and that brief moment of yearning shatters.

Go, go, Mom says with glassy eyes, shooing me out the door. Dont be late!

Bye! I kiss her on the cheek and jog down the front porch steps to Nans waiting Mini Cooper, idling in our dirt-dusted parking circle. Music blasts from the rolled-down windows and I duck inside, instantly assaulted by Nans French perfume and twangy country-pop lyrics.